


Epilogue

by winterwonderland



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst and Humor, But Mostly Humor, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwonderland/pseuds/winterwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected visitor brings long-awaited tidings from Rome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> This is all kinds of silly, I know. I just needed to write something a little lighter after all that angst in the last story, so...this happened.

The sun journeys higher in the midday sky, warming his face as he spurs his horse forward over rock and grass long since freed from winter snow. Yet despite the blessed weather this day, he does not quite yet share its sunny disposition. It has been a good while since he last travelled across these lands, and although the hope of seeing familiar views – and faces – is never far from thought, neither is the fear of what else he may encounter on such long-awaited visit. The years in between may have very well seen those held to heart succumb to time or illness or even enemy sword, and such truths would perhaps best be not unearthed.

But if the time spent on battlefields has taught Cearnaigh one thing, it is that he is far from a cowardly man; if anything, for him the opposite is true. He is his father’s son, after all. And furthermore, there is something else that drives him on this journey back home, even though he has so long been all but certain that he would never see the place again. The moment he heard the news, way over yonder, he knew it was his duty to share them with those he once left behind. It is a debt he owes both to those living and to those gone before he ever even walked this earth.

He follows the riverfront for a while longer, until he finally comes across a familiar bend, where the hillside grows steeper and the woods begin to thicken again. There are still forgotten patches of snow on the north side of the river, but Cearnaigh goads the horse uphill nevertheless, knowing that if his sense of direction is as it should be, the view opening from above should be one he would recognize. And he is right; it is.

The rolling hills gradually give way to the valley below, where the river runs wider and free towards the lake yet beyond eye’s reach. And around the flowing water, the fields and pastures already stand light green from the year’s first crop. And although the woods over the hills may have grown thicker and higher, and the farmsteads around the hillside become more numerous in time, the rest of the landscape almost seems as if it were carved straight from Cearnaigh’s memories.

He sees the hills where he herded goats as a boy and the woods where Agron taught him how to hunt and where he made his first big kill. There are the sandy riverbanks where he used to gather with his friends on hot summer days, whenever he was able to escape Laeta’s watchful eye. The same sands upon which Nasir later showed him how to properly hold sword and wield it against his enemy with deadly precision.

And then he sees the village, mostly perched on a hilltop watching over the valley. And he sees the familiar dwellings, the stables and sheds, sees the streets and alleys bustling with people busy to fulfill day’s tasks. And he can almost make out one particular house among the others, standing at the other edge of the village. His mother’s house. Home.

Cearnaigh draws in a deep breath and then coaxes his horse to move once more. He has come this far, there is no point stalling now.

 

* * * * *

 

He stands at the door and gives it another knock or two, trying to ignore the curious and suspicious whispers and looks he is receiving behind his back.

“Whatever your business is, stranger, you are wasting your time. There is no one inside.”

The voice booms loud behind him, its hard edge slicing the air as if the blade of a sword, and Cearnaigh’s fist stops in mid-air. It takes him a moment until he trusts his ears and then, instead of drawing his weapon, only turns around slowly.

“Rainard?”

The two men stare at each other for a moment in stunned silence, and Cearnaigh makes good of the opportunity to take in the familiar bearded face and the wide frame of the man now before him – still larger than life, even if now slightly hunched over with age.

“What in the...” the older man begins, his eyes growing wider with every drawn breath. And then a grin splits his face, as sudden as a lightning strike across the sky. “For the love of Wotan, if it isn’t little Cearnie himself,” he exclaims, and then without warning, he pulls Cearnaigh into a constricting hug that nearly lifts his feet from the ground. It is clear that as old as the man may be, he is still far from frail, for Cearnaigh himself hardly is a boy any longer.

“It is a gift from the gods,” Rainard continues once he finally drops Cearnaigh back to his feet and gives his face a playful pat. “For a moment I feared it was but old age forcing eyes to see visions before them.”

And Cearnaigh would happily return Rainard’s wide smile if it were not for the worry still weighing upon his mind.

“You said there is no one here...” he starts, gesturing at the house behind them. “My mother...is she not...”

“The woman is alive and well, son,” Rainard answers appeasingly. “And so is Laeta. We may all be old and grey and far beyond our use but still for this world, fear you not.”

Cearnaigh allows himself a brief sigh of relief and a smile before continuing, “So where...”

“The last of the winter storms hit hard on our neighbors to the east,” the other man explains, “Some lost half their cattle and wish not to bargain for calves before knowing what the gods have in store. Your mother’s gift is in great demand.”

He clasps his bear claw of a hand on Cearnaigh’s back and steers their feet back on the main road. “But she will be back before the moon grows full, Nasir will see to that. And in the meantime, let us find some other old face who will be pleased to see you.”

They make their way across the village, garnering a small crowd of children at their heel, who Rainard attempts to shoo away every now and then with a mock glare and a hearty laugh while he continues to fill Cearnaigh in on what he can of the life of their hamlet. There is much to tell and yet very little. There are no news of battle and conquered lands here, only births and deaths, harvests lost to early winter, scuffle and strife with neighboring clans, daughters and sons joining the war. Such are the tales from a place like this. And so it should be.

“But this, of course, is the greatest news of all,” Rainard continues, with his smile still firmly planted on his lips, “a beloved son returning victorious from beyond the Rhine.”

Cearnaigh tries to brush off such flattering words, fearing them far from earned. After all, he has not brought on the demise of the Republic yet – though not for lack of trying. But he has no time to make his self-doubts heard, as the two of them reach their destination, and Rainard hazards a knock on the old, weather-beaten door.

There is no answer.

“Come on, you old fool!” Rainard shouts out, banging on the door with more force, “What stays your fucking feet? Fell asleep in the middle of the day?”

Suddenly there is a sound of footsteps coming from behind the building, along with an exasperated voice.

“Will you stop bellowing like a herd of bulls, you stupid fuck. You make so much noise you will surely raise the de...”

The man stops abruptly – stilling both tongue and feet – once he comes fully around the corner and meets Cearnaigh’s eye.

The years in between may have colored the hair on his head and face mostly grey, deepened the lines on his face and brought a further sturdiness to his tall frame, but there is so much of old that still remains that it nearly is as if time had not moved at all. And this time, Cearnaigh has little reason to fight the relieved smile pulling his lips. It is indeed a blessing to see yet another familiar face alive and well. And he offers his hand out in greeting.

“Uncle...”

But Agron keeps standing still, words seemingly forgotten on his lips. It is only Rainard who is able to wake him with a strong clasp of hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, old man, you seem as if you have seen a ghost. This is no proper way to greet the boy.”

And finally, Agron shakes off whatever it is that had taken hold, and his face splits into a grin, one so familiar it seems odd to think it has almost been half a lifetime since Cearnaigh saw it last. And then, much like Rainard before him, Agron steps forward, foregoing the offered hand and drawing Cearnaigh into a bear hug that is nearly tight enough to crush bones.

“A boy no longer, Rainard,” he says with a chuckle as he gives Cearnaigh’s back one last pat and pulls away, still keeping him at arm’s length as he takes a better look. “Fuck the gods. How long has it been? Must be ten summers at least.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “We had feared battle had already claimed you from this world after all this time.”

“And you should have fucking known you taught me to wield sword better than that.”

“Yes, I suppose we should have,” Agron says matching his grin and patting him on the shoulder. “You are your father’s son, after all.”

And yet again his face takes on a strange expression Cearnaigh is unable to read, but then it is swiftly replaced with another smile, before he has time to question it further.

“So, what brings you back all this way? We stand far from the glory of war and the riches of the world.”

“I bear news from Rome,” he says squaring his shoulders in anticipation as he watches the older men exchange a look and a frown. “Have you not yet heard?”

Rainard’s hand instinctively brushes over the blade hanging from his belt while Agron only frowns deeper.

“Bad news?”

But Cearnaigh is quick to answer with a shake of his head, and then he offers the other two another crooked smile. “As good fucking news as I can bring bar the fall of Rome herself. Yet I would rather share them over a cup of ale if you are of mind.”

“The boy drives a hard bargain,” Rainard says jovially.

“A cunning fuck,” Agron replies, matching his tone, and reaches for the latch on the door, “but perhaps we should indulge him, this once. After all, the man has come a long way for drink and gossip.”

Rainard takes Cearnaigh’s shoulder and ushers him in the door after Agron’s back.

“But for your sake it better be worth it, son.”

And Cearnaigh grins to himself at the words as he steps across the familiar threshold.

“I assure you, it is.”

 

* * * * *

 

Nasir eases the cloak further off his shoulders and rubs the clammy skin at the back of his neck under his heavy braid. The late spring air is yet cool against his skin, but the sun on their backs is making the added clothing unnecessary. Thank the gods for the end of winter, he thinks to himself as he spurs the horse onward up the last hill. Finally. It has been a long time coming this year.

Once their small convoy reaches the edge of the village, Nasir is quick to dismount, handing the reins to one of the boys now waiting at his side before hurrying over to help Sibyl down from her horse.

The woman finds her feet with her usual grace, and Nasir’s gaze strays to the village before them, while she is yet busy gathering her belongings. The streets look suspiciously clean and clear of clutter, and there are fresh birch branches placed outside nearly every door Nasir can see. When he looks back at Sibyl, he finds her wearing a frown similar to his own.

“I did not know we were to hold celebration,” she says confused, smoothing down the front of her shirt and dress before turning from the horses and towards the town.

“A spring wedding, perhaps?” Nasir ventures as they fall into step along the main road, though he cannot remember there ever having been such planned. Then again, he has not been keeping count of the comings and goings of all the young souls in the village, so who is to say.

But Sibyl is quick to shake her head in response. “Not without my knowledge, no.”

“No...” Nasir agrees then, rubbing his beard, and takes another look at the decorated houses. “Well, we are to find out the cause soon enough.”

And that soon enough is sooner than they think as they stumble upon Laeta on the way home.

“We have a visitor,” she explains with a wide smile and a light in her eyes that only has Nasir’s brows knitting together tighter.

“Who?” Sibyl asks

“Well...” But her voice trails off as her attention turns to something over Nasir’s and Sibyl’s shoulders. “You might as well see for yourselves.” And she gestures for them to turn around.

Nasir’s eyes sweep the gravel road, and the first and only thing he sees is a hunting party fresh from the woods loading boar carcasses onto a carriage, children and dogs scurrying at their feet. And he spies only familiar faces among them, not least of all Agron, whose tall figure is always easy enough to pick out from a crowd.

And as happy as Nasir is to see that the old fool has not perished in the past fortnight they have spent apart, it still does not bring him any closer to giving name to any mystery guest among the group of men and women.

“No, it cannot be...”

Hearing her whispered words, Nasir turns to Sibyl, only to watch in confusion as her face suddenly goes white and the bundle in her hands drops helplessly to the ground. And that is when Nasir finally catches the sight of a long haired man who somehow looks both familiar and not at the same time.

Beside him, Sibyl lets out a strangled sob, and then she is already running.

 

* * * * *

 

The crowd gathered around them slowly disperses as Sibyl leads Cearnaigh away, nearly dragging him by the arm, leaving Agron and Nasir watching after their retreat with matching expressions of amusement on their faces.

Then Agron hears the other man let out a small breath beside him and looks over to see a newfound frown deepening the existing lines on the familiar forehead.

“Does he not look...”

But Nasir never needs to finish the question, for Agron knows precisely what he means.

“When I first set eyes upon him, for a moment I fully expected Spartacus and Crixus to follow at heel,” he says idly, scratching his beard before dropping the hand on Nasir's shoulder.

And he still does, at times.

They stand that way in silence for a moment longer, until the other man finally turns to face Agron with a tired smile upon his face.

“Well, it is good to see a long lost face again.”

“It is?” Agron replies with a smirk, but one that the other man seems to wilfully ignore.

“A son returning alive from the war is but good news, is it not?”

“So you speak merely of Cearnaigh then?”

“Of course.”

“And no one else?”

“I suggest you stick with hunting, old man, for fishing shall not yield you returns.”

Agron huffs out a laugh at that and hooks his arm over the man’s shoulder to turn him towards their door. “Well, _your_ presence at least has been missed, Syrian.”

“Is that so?” Nasir’s quirks an eyebrow at him, and Agron smiles a little wider to himself before humming in agreement.

“More than ever. The winds have brought the shed walls in again, and the roof needs thatching.”

And this time it is Nasir’s turn to laugh out loud. “You ass.”

Agron wiggles his lame right hand that still lingers upon Nasir’s shoulder despite the man’s best efforts to push it away. “You expect me to manage such task with this useless thing?”

But the other man only rolls his eyes as he goes to open the door. “Somehow it only seems to be so when the task is not to your liking,” he says over his shoulder as he steps over the threshold, Agron close at heel. The old floor creaks gently under their feet as they walk in, and the air within the grey timber walls still smells of smoke and hay and cured meat – as it is wont to do.

“And how fare the neighbors?” Agron asks leisurely, once they both have made it inside and the door closes shut behind them.

“I hope Sibyl’s words have at least brought some form of comfort to such dire times, if nothing else,” Nasir says, shrugging off his coat.

“Ah, our lady of the gods. No further cow or goat will dare to perish in fear of her divine revelations.”

The blade of a sword hits loudly against the wood as the other man sets down his coat and weapons on the bench by the door. “Sometimes I wonder how you have not yet been struck by lightning the way you speak.”

And Agron only chuckles at Nasir's tone. “I hold wisdom to find myself in the company of those more blessed than I,” he says as he comes to stand behind the smaller man. “You shall act as my sword and shield if the fucking gods ever decide to come and seek retribution.”

He rests his hands upon Nasir’s shoulders, but the man swats them away with an exasperated sigh that nearly becomes a groan. “And now you keep hovering around like an old wife, what is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Agron answers evenly, but lets go of the man nevertheless and walks the short distance to the table. He watches Nasir turn to face him with an ever-deepening frown.

“I know you better than I know myself, Agron. What is it?”

“Cearnaigh brings tidings from Rome,” he answers slowly, measuring his words as he pours them both a drink.

Nasir walks over to him but refuses the offered cup and only scowls further instead. “They have not crossed the...”

Agron knows the look in the man’s eyes; it is the same one most of them have shared on more than one occasion now that the Republic has extended its grasp to Gallia. But he is quick to dissuade the concern with a shake of his head.

“Those shits know better than to wage war on these lands,” he says with a sneer, perhaps sounding bolder than he should. And they both know that such threats are little more than hot air, but sometimes it feels as if bluster is all he has to strike with anymore, and if that is what it takes to keep the monsters at bay, then so be it.

“Then what news is it? Has Caesar finally anointed himself god among men?”

For a moment Agron’s hand stills, and then he taps his fingers along the cool clay surface of the cup. He lets out a breath he did not even realize he has been holding and looks at Nasir carefully under his brow.

“Caesar is dead.”

The change in the other man is barely there, but Agron sees it none the same.

“In battle?”

“No, a far worthier end for a shit like him,” Agron answers, no longer able to fight the wry smile pulling his lips, “Betrayed by his own men.”

But the laugh that escapes now is shallower, far different than it has been these past days, different than it was with Rainard when Cearnaigh first broke the news. Then again, with Nasir everything is different. For better and for worse.

Nasir reaches out to take the cup from the table but then stops, and for a while his hand rests still on top of Agron’s. His fingers skim the long since hardened scars marring the skin, and the silence that has settled between them lingers for another long moment.

“No, this will not fucking do,” Agron says then, pulling his hand away and straightening his back, breaking the moment. “We stand under the same roof again, a long lost son has returned from war whole and hale, and a fucking enemy stands for the afterlife.” Again, he takes both cups in hand and holds the other one for Nasir to take. “Such day is worth a drink at least, is it not?”

Nasir’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. It seems to take forever, but when he finally glances up at Agron again, there is a long-awaited smile gracing his lips as well.

“At least,” he says simply with an ever-widening grin and finally takes the offered drink and then empties it in one long swallow. “And now what?” he continues, lowering the cup heavily back on the table, wiping froth from his beard with the back of his hand. “Shall I venture on the roof, or should we find one of the youths to offer hand?”

“I would have thought you wished to rest after such a journey.”

“Ah, such is the thinking of an old man,” Nasir replies with another smile, and then suddenly turns to go and find a nearly forgotten parcel from the folds of his discarded coat.

“Gunnar wished for you to have this,” he says with a subtle roll of his eyes that does not go unnoticed, and Agron gives him a knowing smile in return.

“How good of him to think of a neighbor, even in his time of need.”

“Yes, it is not as if someone else entirely risked wind and rain and hail to truly help him in his plight.”

He offers the dagger for Agron to take, and he flips it a few times with seasoned ease in his left hand before catching Nasir's eye again.

“You did not bring me anything else from your travels?”

“I brought myself, is that not enough?”

“Such thing is debatable,” Agron answers evenly as he keeps testing the blade against the leather of his belt.

“Offer more bold words and find that one day I shall not return.”

Agron shrugs. “Then I shall find another.”

“And who else, pray tell, would wish to be burdened with such a crippled old fool?” Nasir asks then, feigning a frown and finally stepping closer.

“As if you are such a prize yourself, little man,” Agron replies, only to find himself suddenly perched on the edge of the table as Nasir closes the distance between them, grabbing the dagger from Agron’s hand and taking it in his own.

“I would advise softer words towards the one who shares your bed.”

Agron grins at that and crooks a finger under the leather twine around Nasir's neck. “Or what?” he asks, pulling the other man towards him and receiving a sly smile in response. The weapon in Nasir's hand clatters forgotten onto the table.

“You are a randy old goat.”

“And you are not?”

“I am not _old_.”

 

* * * * *

 

The afternoon sun filters in from the front room, and Nasir watches the motes of dust dancing in the errant beams of light for a moment, before he rolls to his side and leisurely drapes one arm over the other man. As always, Agron burns as a human furnace and Nasir, winter’s chill forever trapped in his bones, surreptitiously sidles closer to his side to share in the warmth.

Neither of them is short of task or duty on any given day, let alone now when a new season is upon them, and it would probably serve them well to at least leave their bed when there still is daylight to be had. But Nasir decides to let himself indulge in the peace and quiet for a moment longer and rests his bearded chin against Agron's shoulder, while his fingers begin absently drawing patterns over bare skin, without much purpose or destination. It is only when he maps the line of a hard-edged scar running along Agron’s side that his hand suddenly stops its travel and he draws in a deep, shuddered breath.

When he opens his eyes again, the skin beneath his fingers is once more smooth and absent blemish and the trail of grey hair below the navel has turned darker before his gaze. He can almost smell the moss growing over damp stone in the corner. And if he strains his ears, he can hear footsteps in the corridor beyond the doorway and a woman’s airy laugh resonating from the walls. Then come the sounds echoing in the courtyard outside: steel clashing against steel and splintering wood, and familiar voices barking out orders and instructions alike. Crixus, Oenomaus, Spartacus...

But it is the sound of a loud snore right beside his ear that brings him back to the present with a jolt. The memory of days left behind long ago stays with him for a while longer, stirring an old, forgotten longing within his chest, and it takes him a moment to find his bearings again. Yet Nasir also knows it is here and now where he is ever able to live, not in the past or in the days yet to come. And here and now is enough, more than enough.

He leans over Agron’s chest and gently kisses the long-hardened scar upon the hand resting there, and then he smiles to himself and pulls at the chest hair peeking out between the fingers.

Agron’s head shoots up, and he is suddenly blinking a little more than is exactly necessary.

“Wha...What is it?”

And Nasir smiles wider. “You fell to slumber.”

“I did not,” the man replies quickly with an affronted frown.

“You were snoring, old man.”

“Again with the old,” Agron huffs, and his head falls back down on the pallet with an audible thump. And Nasir edges closer, placing one thigh between Agron’s own and kissing his chest, conveniently stifling most of his chuckle with the action.

“Should I worry to find you this worn out, even when I did most of the work?”

The other man raises his head again and looks back at him with narrowed eyes. “You little sh–” But Nasir is quick to cut him off with a press of fingers over mouth.

“Not so little.”

Agron pries his hand away. “A giant among men,” he scoffs, but Nasir does not give him further opportunity to speak or offend, shutting his mouth the one way he knows how.

Agron rolls them over with experienced ease, but the kiss never quite grows to be hungry again and turns light and biting instead. Soft pecks and beard bristling against weatherworn skin. For it is true that despite their joint objection to creeping old age, neither of them is as young as they used to be. But then again, sometimes compromise _can_ be its own reward.

Some say.

Most likely not Agron, though – at least not out loud.

Nasir’s fingers comb through the tangles in Agron’s hair, while Agron finds himself for the moment blissfully occupied with the skin on Nasir's shoulder. He is then about to make his way up Nasir’s neck again, when a loud bang from the front door has him still his tongue and draw away in surprise.

“Agron! Nasir! Are you home?” Laeta’s voice rings from outside, prompting an equally frustrated groan from both men.

“It must be said, the woman has timing,” Agron mutters, burrowing his face in Nasir’s chest, while Nasir lets his head rest back on the bed, trying to seek control of his breathing again.

“Agron? Are you there?”

And then, Nasir finally pushes Agron off of him and scrambles to sit up to reach for his trousers from the floor. “We will be there but in a moment!” he shouts out, ignoring Agron’s scowl, and then walks out from the alcove, pulling his shirt over his head as he makes his way to the front door.

“I was to the well and thought I would come by to invite...” Laeta's voice trails off as her attention turns from Nasir's face to Agron who is now walking over, cursing to himself while hastily adjusting the belt around the waist of his breeches. She clears her throat and turns back to Nasir, biting back a smile that is somewhere between bashful and knowing.

“I did not...interrupt a more important task, did I?”

“Only an old man’s rest,” Nasir answers evenly.

“Is that what we are to name it now?” Agron says as he reaches the other man’s side, paying no mind to the chiding hand slapping his chest and turning to Laeta instead. “So, what is this I hear of an invite?”

“Sibyl has prepared enough food to feed half the village, and we thought if perhaps you would care to join us? There hardly is better occasion than this. What do you say?”

“When have you ever seen him turn down a meal?” Nasir replies with a smile, earning a glare from Agron in return.

“Mouthy bastard. Have you ever considered holding your tongue?”

“Not really.”

“Perhaps you should.”

For a moment, Laeta looks from one man to the next before her eyes settle on Agron. “So, am I to understand you will not join me?” she asks with a gentle frown that deepens the existing lines between her thin brows.

Silence drags its feet for a moment, but then Agron’s face splits into an all-too-familiar grin, and he takes her by the shoulder as he finally answers her with a laugh.

“Please, when have you ever seen me turn down a fucking meal?”

Once they step outside, Agron takes one of the birds hanging beside the doorway and hands it over, taking the pail of water Laeta is carrying from her frail hand in return.

“For your trouble,” he says, and the old woman accepts the offering with a small smile and an incline of her head.

The three of them make their way across the village, walking past a group of youths rolling large barrels of ale and mead along the main road in preparation for tomorrow’s celebration. And Nasir smiles to himself at the sight and leans closer to Agron’s side, clasping a hand on his back.

“I will say this, our people at least know how to raise spirits.”

“That we do,” Agron replies, smiling in kind. He then slings his free arm around Nasir’s shoulder and pulls him closer, prompting a surprised laugh from the man. “When given proper cause.”

At that, Laeta turns to them, an eyebrow arching on her forehead. “Past moon, you held song and dance over one errant primrose at the side of the road.”

“As I said, woman, given proper cause,” Agron repeats and then turns to Nasir in search of validation, putting on the most serious expression he can muster, “The year’s first sign of life is an event worthy of drink and fest. Would you not concur, dear friend?”

And Nasir nods solemnly, matching Agron’s tone. “I would.”

“Grown men acting as children,” Laeta scoffs and shakes her head, but it is hard to miss the smile threatening to pull her lips as well.

They reach their destination, but as they are about to step in, Nasir sees a familiar face on the other side of the alley and walks up to greet him, Agron in tow.

“You have heard the news by now, I am sure,” Icorix says, after they have exchanged their hellos. He then scratches the edge of his scar as Nasir nods slowly in reply.

“It has been a long time coming,” Nasir answers somberly.

“Too long,” Agron concurs. And for a moment the heavy weight of a shared past yet hangs above them as if a tempestuous cloud.

But the grave mood lasts not long; they have all seen enough and lived through enough to not let such thoughts plague minds. Too much. The years in between have been long and mostly kind, and they know they have done their part – whether it was enough or not is a question that is off their hands now and up to the tide of history to answer.

Icorix, forever the optimist among them, is the first to be smiling again as he leans leisurely back onto his cane.

“Speaking of news, your sword stands repaired again,” he says to Nasir, “Find me at the forge tomorrow and you may claim it.”

“Gratitude.”

The other man huffs out a laugh and nudges Nasir gently on the arm. “Hold the sentiment and offer payment instead, you cheap fuck.”

And Nasir shakes his head, fighting a smile, while Agron – openly chuckling now – grabs the man by the shoulder.

“I left today’s quarry at the door. There should be five grouse left, take as many as you need.”

And Icorix smirks wider and gently bows his head.

“You are too kind.”

“When it fucking suits him,” Nasir says, giving Agron a sideway glance, receiving a less than subtle eye-roll in return.

“We should go, lest Laeta has our meal grow cold,” Agron says, brushing his hand over Nasir’s back before turning to Icorix again. “We shall see you tomorrow, I presume.”

“You shall. I am not one to refuse free drink, and on such an occasion.”

“A sentiment shared,” Nasir says, finally returning Icorix’s wide smile.

And with those words they part ways, and Nasir and Agron walk back across the alleyway, towards the yet open door where even more familiar faces now stay waiting.

“Agron, will you give the toast,” Sybil says as they gather around the table a moment later, “There are many things to celebrate on this eve.”

Yet when he gets to his feet and raises his cup and lets his gaze study the faces before him, they all know there is but one toast to give.

“To your health,” he starts, as is custom, and then smiles and lifts his drink even higher above the crowded table. “And to Spartacus.”

 


End file.
